


memories (gone but not forgotten)

by ghostinthebook



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Gen, Malec is mentioned, POV Clary Fray, Post-Episode: s03e22 All Good Things..., that finale is very inspiring tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 01:39:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18928711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthebook/pseuds/ghostinthebook
Summary: Clary claims she has no inspiration behind the paintings, but she cannot figure out why she paints what she does.





	memories (gone but not forgotten)

**Author's Note:**

> little hc of mine: she knew she would be outside the Institute with no memories, so she hid a bag with her stuff in it, deleted almost all of her phone contacts, and made sure the college could take her, give her a place to stay. so that's a bit of explanation there. enjoy!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Clary Fray doesn’t know where she gets her inspiration.

She was attending the Brooklyn Academy of Art, joining in the spring semester because, apparently, she had never registered for the fall semester after being accepted. She has no idea why, because her memories of the last three months are fuzzy, to say the best.

Her mother had died. She knew that, and she thinks that may explain her memories being shaky recently. She had only ever had her mother, no father figure to speak of. The closest to a best friend she could think of was Maureen, who stopped talking to her, apparently. After talking with a therapist, she thinks that her mind blocked out whatever happened in those months.

Last thing she had known, she was at home, and it was her birthday. August 23rd. Next thing she knew, it was about three months later. She was standing in the park, a fancy dress on, and tears on her face. She had looked behind a tree, and there was a bag with her stuff in it. There was a lot more black, leather-type clothes than she ever remembered having, which was odd. Her sketchbooks had some sketches in them that she didn’t think she drew, at first, but it was exactly her style. She drew it, she just doesn’t remember.

Her phone was there, surprisingly empty. Only a few contacts, little pictures. She found a note in one of the apps:

“You’re in the Brooklyn Academy of Art, grab this bag, it's your bag. Do that and go to the Brooklyn Academy of Art. You’ll get a dorm room, you have a meal plan, it’s already sorted. Also, some messed up stuff happened in the past three months. See a therapist.”

Apparently, her past self knew she was going to forget everything, and prepared the future (or present, now) her for that. She had a place to stay, and a bit of advice. She silently thanked past her for this.

She started taking classes as soon as she could. Her teachers often asked her where she got her inspiration from.

She couldn’t tell you; she doesn’t know.

She painted a man with cat’s eyes and magic in his presence. But the face, she couldn’t get the face right. The exact shade of color for the magic, it felt off. She didn’t know how to fix it, but according to her professors, it didn’t need fixing there. They were thinking of the technicalities of the painting, but she wasn’t focused on that.

She felt like she knew this man. But that was impossible.

She painted an archer, the bowstring taut as he aimed for his target. His eyes were the wrong color. She doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be aiming at.

There was a connection between the archer and the cat eyes man, she thought. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what.

One painting she did was of an eldritch monster. She couldn’t explain the actual, real fear that she felt looking at it. Or why she had a theory on how it could be defeated.

She painted a woman, holding a whip. The snakelike tattoos on her looked like they were in the wrong places, her hair color was off by a shade. She doesn’t know why she cried while painting it, as if she lost her best friend.

At one point, she was just supposed to paint her idea of what a nerdy, dorky person would look like. She doesn’t know why she made the boy with the Star Wars t-shirt a vampire. She cried painting that one, too.

Then, there was the boy that showed up in painting more than all the others combined.

Heterochromatic eyes. One brown, one blue. Blond hair. Usually had a smirk or a serious look on his face, but some of her paintings showed him as soft and vulnerable. He looked to be a man in love, but now heartbroken, in those.

She made up a whole pretend backstory for him. He used to be sad, then he met a mysterious lover, who left him soon after. Her favorite paintings were the ones that she decided the lover was still with him in, where he looked happy.

In even the furthest corner of her mind, she cannot imagine how she came up with this one.

Her missing memories. Her unknown inspiration. The half-formed names that she can never remember, the nightmares at night that she didn’t remember when she awoke.

She used to have people, she knew that. Otherwise, not having anyone wouldn’t sting so hard now. She had some sort of mentor, father-type figure. She had friends, best friends.

But she couldn’t remember any of them.

At one of her art showings, put on by the school, she saw a man that looked so much like her cat eyes man, she was actually a bit surprised his eyes weren’t gold, just brown.

No, she actually wasn’t surprised.

She doesn’t know anymore.

He bought one of her paintings, the archer one. Told her he would pay her extra to change the eye color to hazel, to match his husband’s eyes.

For some reason, that made sense. She fixed it, he bought the painting.

Another time, a woman walked in. She looked old enough to be her mother, probably had adult children of her own.

Clary doesn’t know why the woman cried while looking at her paintings. She didn’t look moved by the paintings, just sad.

She bought the painting of the girl with the whip.

About a year after the whole losing-memories thing, she was at yet another showing.

She turned.

And saw him.

The boy in her paintings. One blue eye, one brown. Blond hair.

It was him.

Jace.

**Author's Note:**

> the paintings are (in order): Magnus, Alec, a demon, Izzy, Simon, and Jace  
> the visitors are (also in order): Magnus, Maryse, and Jace  
> hope you guys liked this one!


End file.
